Backlash
by Thumperquack
Summary: Cause there just aren't enough stories about these guys. You never know what life has in store for you.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note.**

I don't know what inspired me to write this story. One day I sat in front of the computer and it just burst forth. It's my first time writing Law & Order and I've only watched a handful of episodes, so I can't promise everything will be in canon, or that my characters will be 100% accurate. I haven't been to New York in years so my geography may be off too. I can only promise to try to stay true to what I've seen on the show and write these characters as I've come to know and love them.

Be warned: the story WILL get dark and angsty at times, and some of it may be graphic-but it will have its warm fuzzy moments as well.

I don't really want to give anything else away. Read on. Tell me what you think.

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><p><strong>1.<strong>

It was a beautiful, balmy New York City sunset. Abbie Carmichael couldn't help a sigh of admiration and contentment as she skipped down the Courthouse steps with Jack McCoy, her boss. Maybe "skipping" was too much—her walking was dignified as ever, or at least as dignified as a person who had been on high heels for twelve hours could muster. It was mostly her heart that skipped, on account of their recent legal success—People vs. Burton King, a well-known but previously unconvicted drug dealer. _Murdering drug dealer, _she reminded herself. It had been a hard battle, and a long one—and at one point the whole case had been nearly thrown out on a technicality.

But now it was over, and Burton King would never see the light of day again. Okay… too dramatic. But he wouldn't see the light of day from the outside_. Life without parole. _The words rolled off her tongue like honey. Was it sick of her to feel this way? What if she was just a closet psychopath getting off on other people's pain and suffering?

_Hell, no. _It wasn't like she enjoyed locking people up for life. But some people deserved it. Take this guy for instance. Burton King, a "self-taught businessman", as he called himself. It wasn't bad enough he led a drug ring responsible for who knew how many deaths by overdose. He had killed an innocent bystander. On _purpose. _In front of her now traumatized four-year-old. And why? Just because she'd happened to be on the wrong street corner at the wrong time.

Life without parole was too good for this guy. Death is what he should've got. But it was a first strike. He had no priors. And the traumatized little boy couldn't be called upon to testify. So…

It was still a success. Especially considering how close they'd come to have it all go up in flames.

"Whatcha thinking of, Abbie?" Jack unexpectedly asked. "You look happy."

"Satisfied is more like it. I'm just glad to see this end." She hadn't realized she'd been smiling to herself. What a chump.

"You did good," Jack conceded, even more unexpectedly. "Real good. If it wasn't for your research, we could never have gotten this guy."

She came close to blushing. It wasn't often Jack gave out praise. In fact, it was almost always the other way around. And God knew Abbie had made her share of mistakes since becoming his second chair. She couldn't really blame him for going off the deep end sometimes—her five year experience couldn't light a candle to his twenty, much to her chagrin. Maybe it wasn't respectable to be so elated it was _her _knowledge and _her _background that broke the case this time, but… human nature, right?

He spared her the trouble of having to think up a demure response by clapping her on the shoulder—his way of saying good bye. "Well, I guess I'll be seeing you around. Have a nice weekend."

Twilight fell as they parted ways, Jack heading toward his motorcycle (the idea of him in leather chaps still made her snicker) and Abbie turning the opposite way, toward the Courthouse parking lot. She'd put a lot of thought into the buying of her car. Mostly because it was true—if you lived in Manhattan, you didn't _need _one. There was the subway and way enough cabs to go around. But Abbie couldn't deny her Texan roots—she'd been raised on steaks, football, and pick-ups—she enjoyed driving. So why the hell should she deprive herself?

Dangling her keys joyfully, she couldn't help a little burst of pride at the sight of her Chrysler. Sure it was no Silverado, but it was hers. And it was beautiful. Roadtrip maybe, now that she finally had some time to kill after P vs King? She was just savoring the thought of taking off aimlessly toward destinations unknown, when she found herself shoved unceremoniously against her car door.

"Hey!" was all she managed to huff out in protest before a death grip on the back of her head crushed her face into the window, making it impossible to say anything else.

Her heart went into overload. Okay, innocent mistake this was _not. _This wasn't some fellow driver accidentally bumping into her on the way to his car. This was someone deliberately gagging her, driving her into the door with force enough to make her lose her footing and knock her wind out.

And that wasn't all. Along with the hand on her skull she realized there was another claw down south prying its sickening way up her skirt. And a revolting voice whispering in her ear, "Don't move a muscle, bitch."

_Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod. _She could feel his erection pressed into her hip, his hot humid breath on the back of her neck. Flashbacks to that one unfortunate date way back in college flew through her mind, unwanted statistics blaring across her brain:_ the average age of the typical rape victim is 18 and a half, 57% of college rape victims were attacked by their dates, only 50% of rapes are reported and of these only 40% are convicted, women who have been raped once are 7 times more likely to be raped again…_

_Fuck you, I will _not _be a statistic!_

He pulled away for one second—one tiny second—to unzip his pants, and Abbie saw her chance. Using all the strength she was capable of, she whipped around and slammed her elbow into his face. And did the only other thing she could think of—screamed bloody murder. As loud and as long as she could, even knowing the parking lot was deserted—even knowing her gravelly voice wasn't really made for earsplitting yowls. Someone _had _to hear her. There were still people in the building, right? They hadn't all gone home for the night. And Jack… Jack still had to be around. They'd barely said their goodbyes a minute ago. He couldn't have left yet. And he'd be sure to recognize her voice. He heard it everyday.

Her moment of triumph was short lived, as she knew it would be. She hadn't gone two feet before he grabbed her by the jacket, throwing her back against the hood of her Chrysler. "Stupid bitch," he spat.

She caught only a glimpse of his bloodied features before a fist loomed over her, there was a mind-stunning blow, the feel of asphalt digging into her cheek, and then… darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you so much, my 3 reviewers! You've inspired me to keep going. Hope this next installment doesn't disappoint. **

**By the way... I don't actually _know _what happened to Claire Kincaid, or what sort of relationship she & Jack had. From other fanfictions, I've gathered they were romantically involved. But I'm not sure (shippers will be shippers). So I just hint at something. Please feel free to fill me in so I can be more explicit.**

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><p>2.<p>

It was the sound of Lieutenant Anita van Buren's heels clicking down the corridor toward him that finally broke him out of his stupor. He'd been slumped on the same plastic seat for at least an hour, ever since he'd rolled off the bus with Abbie's gurney, trying _not_ to get the disturbing images of what he'd just witnessed out of his head.

Anita's face was a mask of worried exhaustion—a mirror image of the way he felt. "Got here as soon as I heard," she said. "Any word?"

Jack shook his head helplessly. He wasn't used to being the emotional spectator—not since Claire Kincaid. That had been a harrowing episode all on its own, something he couldn't even begin to think about right now or he might fall apart. Right now he _had_ to dissociate. It was all about Abbie. He might not _like _what he'd seen, but he had to preserve the memories, down to the slightest detail. His eyewitness account might be all they'd have to base their case on.

"I'll be running the investigation myself. What happened?"

He should've walked her to her car. Why the hell hadn't he? Such a simple gesture. It wasn't even that far out of his way—a few minutes at most. And it was dark. What the hell sort of boss let their young, out-of-town subordinate walk out into an abandoned parking lot by themselves after dark? He struggled to get his thoughts in order.

Abbie had seemed genuinely happy that afternoon. Not that she was ever depressive or bitter, but that day had been a success, hands down. She'd taken her commendation in stride and they'd gone their separate ways. Jack, less absorbed by the glow of their victory, had really just wanted to get home. Thankfully his motorcycle was in perfect condition, something you could never be sure of after 48 hours on a mean Manhattan street. He was on the verge of taking off when a weird sound caught his attention, even through his bike's melodious revving. He couldn't identify it at first—then realized it was a scream. A series of screams, actually—low-pitched and far away and desperate. His heart jumped into his throat when he recognized the broken voice as Abbie's.

It must be bad. It _had _to be bad if she was screaming—something he'd never heard her do before. He wasted no time getting himself to the parking lot and was about a hundred yards away when he noticed a man bending over a prone figure on the ground, not two feet from Abbie's prized Chrysler.

"Hey!" he yelled, breaking into a run. But he wasn't fast enough. In a second the perp had scrambled to his feet and vanished. Once Jack reached Abbie, all other concerns flew out of his mind. His formerly beautiful, competent, healthy assistant lay strewn on the ground like a rag doll, face streaked with blood, blouse torn, skirt hiked up—way, way too much skin exposed.

"Shit, oh shit," was all he could say, over and over again like a mantra. Heads were popping up everywhere now—out of windows and down from the street_. _Damned bystanders. Where were they while she was being attacked? Why show up now, when they couldn't do anything to help? They shouldn't be seeing her like this. This was his strong-willed caustic Abbie, "Hang'em Higher Carmichael", hardass lawyer extraordinaire. They had no right to be gawking at her like she was some faceless, nameless victim.

He stayed with her till the paramedics came, guarding her privacy as best he could from the roaming busybodies. He fought to be allowed to ride in the bus with her. But the minute the gurney disappeared into the examination room, he was banished—confined to this damned plastic seat, with nothing to do but play the scene in his mind over and over again.

What were the chances of something like this happening in the Courthouse parking lot of all places? Weren't there security cameras for Pete's sake? And where were they now? Why wasn't the place crawling with cops like it should have been? And why the hell hadn't he walked her to her car?

Anita heard his recount in respectful silence, not interrupting once. She even lay her hand on his arm—a comforting gesture he'd never seen her do before. Not even when ADA Ricci was murdered. He was inaudibly grateful for it.

"Did you get a look at the perp?"

Jack shut his eyes, doing his best to make the image as precise as possible. "Briefly. But I could talk to a sketch artist. Tall, about 6'2", white—dark hair. That's about all I saw before he ran off. I didn't even try to chase him, Anita. I just wanted to get to her."

"I know, I understand, Jack." It was one of the few times she'd ever used his first name instead of the usual businesslike McCoy. Another thing he was silently grateful for. "Did you see the perp touch anything? The car?"

"He must have. And there's got to be trace on her clothes. He was… all over her."

She didn't know. Anita didn't know what he knew—what Abbie had confided in a moment of vulnerability. That she'd been a rape victim once before. It was something he could barely bring himself to think about—the words "rape" and "Abbie" shouldn't even be allowed in the same sentence. He couldn't bear the thought of it happening again. She was the strongest person he knew but… could anyone be _that_ strong? What if she couldn't take it? What if it destroyed her?

"I'll tell Lennie and Ed to take care of it."

A drained-looking doctor pushed his way through the swinging doors before them, causing Jack to spring from his chair like a wind-up toy.

"I'm Dr. Russell. Are you here for Miss Carmichael?"

"Yes, I'm Jack McCoy—I came in with her. How is she?" He did his best to play down his agitation, but Anita's anxious eyes clearly told him he wasn't fooling anyone.

"She sustained a mild concussion but should be okay. She's already regained consciousness, and her x-rays and CAT scan came back normal. It's mostly just cuts and bruises that should heal in a couple of weeks. I'd still like to keep her overnight for observation, since it's late and she has no relatives in the area."

"Thank God," breathed Anita.

Jack wasn't so easily appeased. His relief couldn't be complete until the doctor had answered another, more important question. One he dearly wished he could avoid. "And what about… sexual assault?"

Dr. Russell looked mildly uncomfortable. "That's really something I should be discussing only with next of kin."

Jack's throat tightened painfully as he, a prosecutor, found himself at loss of words. Since Abbie was awake, he imagined she'd know the results of her own check up, but he'd rather die than put her through the torture of asking her.

Once again, instinctively, Anita came to his rescue.

"I'm Lieutenant van Buren, the detective in charge of this case," she announced firmly. "This is an ADA we're talking about. The results of her SAE kit are evidence. I need it if one was taken."

Dr. Russell wiped his brow. "My forensic nurse will give it to you. An examination was performed at her own request. It showed no signs of sexual activity."

_At her own request. _It sucked Abbie should have to wake up to _that _as one of her primary concerns.

Even so, Jack's relief was boundless—to the point his knees almost gave out. If it hadn't been for Anita's reassuring support, he might have ended up on the floor. No wonder she was staring at him like he had six eyeballs. Hang'em High McCoy was turning into Hang On For Dear Life McCoy.


	3. Chapter 3

**This was kind of a nothing chapter, but I felt the need to work on the angst/aftermath a little more before moving on to other things. The next chapter will get more "investigative", so to speak.**

**Disclaimer: Sadly I don't own these characters. If I did, L&O would still be on the air and a lot of the old cast would still be around. Not that I have a problem with the last years' cast, but... I'm just nostalgic, I guess.**

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><p>3.<p>

It was worse than he'd thought.

_Minor cuts and bruises, my ass. _She looked terrible. Her face was so badly battered it was barely recognizable. Her left eye was black and puffed shut from the cut on her eyebrow. Half the skin on her right cheekbone was gone and the lip under it was split and swollen. He counted at least eight stitches on her, and those were the ones he could see. Her slender neck was marred with bruises, as was her chest and arms as far as the hospital gown would show. He couldn't see the rest of her, but he'd be willing to bet it was all just as bad. The brightly smiling recollection of untarnished Abbie coming out of the Courthouse radiant with success nearly broke his heart. He just barely managed to choke down the horrified "God…Abbie…" that rose to his lips.

_Get it together, McCoy, _he sternly ordered himself. Getting emotional would help no one, least of all her. She needed a friend—and a district attorney. Not a pity party.

"Hey, Jack," she croaked, voice raspier than ever. _Because of all the screaming, no doubt._

"Hey, Abbie." She'd hardly appreciate his acting like she was about to break. In fact, he could almost see the disfigured frown under all her injuries. But—he'd never been so at loss in his life.

"Relax, McCoy. I wasn't raped," she shocked him by saying, in a saucy bantering tone dangerously close to normal.

No amount of self-control could keep his jaw from dropping open this time. The woman was even stronger than he'd imagined—making a joke about _that _of all things. Bless her, she was actually smiling—or trying to. It came out an impossibly pathetic grimace due to the mangled lip. But the intention was there.

"So I heard." He smiled too, then instantly ruined it by taking a gingerly seat next to her and adding, "Listen… I'm really sorry I didn't walk you to your car. If I had—"

"Don't be an idiot. This isn't your fault. It could've happened to anybody, anytime."

Jack couldn't tell if she was authentically pissed or just trying to be reassuring in tough-love sort of way. A few silent minutes passed as her chest laboriously rose and fell and he realized, guiltily, she wasn't as physically comfortable as she let on. Suspiciously eyeing the contents of the bag strapped to the IV, he was glad to find a generous amount of Demerol in it.

"You hurting?"

It was a dumb question and he knew it. Of course she was in pain. No one could have that amount of soft tissue damage and not hurt. If she blurted out a huge "DUH" and rolled her eyes he would hardly have blamed her.

As it was, she was exceptionally gracious.

"A little," she admitted. "Thanks for… you know. Finding me. If you hadn't… it would've been a different story."

ADA Carmichael acknowledging she'd needed help? Wow. Jack was so taken a back he could barely think of an appropriate response.

"How do you know it was me?"

"You were the one I shouted for. Didn't think there was anyone else within hearing distance."

She had shouted for _him. _And to think if he had hopped on his bike two seconds earlier he wouldn't even have heard her. He'd probably be home, passed out in front of the TV, just now getting the second worst phone call of his life. And _she_ might be dead. Or…

_Don't even go there, McCoy._

"Hey, Abbie… Van Buren's gonna come here in a few minutes to do some routine questioning. You up to it?"

She gave him a scathing glance. "Of course."

"Did you recognize the man who did this to you?"

A shadow fell across her already distorted features. "No. I didn't get a real good look at him. Except when he was covered in blood."

"Covered in blood?"

"I elbowed him in the face."

Jack was secretly delighted. _Attagirl._ Not only had she got a blow in edgewise, but she'd made the assailant bleed. They'd have DNA from the ground to match a suspect to… once they found one.

"Do you think you could pick him out of a line-up?"

"Don't think so." She shuddered violently and her voice lost some of its sauciness. "At least, not _that _kind of line-up."

Jack stared. What the hell was she talking about? Did she mean—?

"I meant his _voice_," she clarified scornfully.

Despite her efforts at cynicism, the tough girl façade was falling fast. Fatigue and pain, fear and humiliation were all taking a toll. He could see it in the rapid blinking of her eyes, the trembling of her fingers, the growing hoarseness of her voice. Deep down, Jack had known all along her "you-can't-faze-me-I'm-just-fine" crap was nothing but a ploy. He'd gone along with it because _he _would have done the same. As Adam Schiff, his respected old DA friend, had always said—they were like two peas in a pod. For better or for worse, admitting they were vulnerable was something the Carmichaels and McCoys of this world simply did not do. Or any self-respecting prosecutor, for that matter. Considering themselves invincible sort of came with the territory.

It was time to back off. If he kept on pushing, she would shatter—and he _knew _how much crying in public aggravated her. Damned if he was doing that to her. Hadn't she been violated enough for one day?

Unfortunately she still had to give her statement to the police. But he figured he could trust Anita van Buren. She and Abbie had worked closely for over a year now and as far as he knew, they'd never butted heads. She'd been sensitive enough through the entire Ricci ordeal. Hell, she had even held his hand while he was giving _his _testimonial. There was no one else he'd rather have in time of need.

"Van Buren really needs to talk to you and afterwards you should get some rest. I'm gonna go, okay? Anything I can do for you?"

She seemed so peaked and panicky at the mention of Van Buren, he almost regretted leaving. But she regained composure in record time. "Yeah, drive my car home for me, would you? I'm on sick leave for two weeks."


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm really sorry I took so long. I wrote myself into a hole, had to type up 4 different versions of this chapter to finally get one right. I'm not terribly happy with it, but it seems to be the best I can do... and I don't want to keep stalling. Once again, thanks to my lovely reviewers, especially those who answered my questions on Claire Kincaid.**

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><p>4.<p>

"Get anything from the videos, Lennie?"

Lennie Briscoe swiveled around on his chair, welcoming the interruption. Not only was he dead tired after a long hard day, but the surveillance tapes were making him seriously sick. He'd been looking at them for what seemed forever. In reality it must have been an hour—two at most. Ever since he'd got the urgent page from Lieu—"_Meet me & Ed at courthouse ASAP. Carmichael down". _Enough information to make him dump his Scotch down the drain and take off—but not enough to even begin to prepare himself for what he'd find. After what had happened to Toni Ricci—and to his own daughter—his agonized overworked cop's imagination didn't take kindly to hints.

In the end it hadn't been as bad as he'd feared. The pool of blood next to her car made him cringe, but the uniforms who had set up the perimeter assured him "the victim" was alive and on her way to the hospital.

_The victim._

Terrible words to describe one of their own. Because the people from the DA's office _were_ "one of their own", even if they didn't wear badges or carry pieces or go around kicking down doors. They were on the same side of The Law, and Lennie had grown to respect and appreciate Carmichael through their mutual collaboration. Sure there were those who grumbled about what a hardass she was. But that came with the job. You couldn't really work for the district attorney and _not _be a stickler for rules_. _It didn't matter to him—she'd never been anything if not committed to him and his fellow detectives. Maybe the search warrant wasn't always on their desk at their beck and call. But _she _always was. And she never balked at meeting them at the local diner, hot dog vendor or gory crime scene either.

"Nothing but a headache," he groused. "Take a look."

The security videos made him want to punch someone's lights out. Three different cameras had caught the attack on Carmichael in surprisingly lurid detail, in spite of the dark. And yet _no one _had come. Not when she was pinned to the car, not when she was fighting back for all she was worth—not till after McCoy had come bounding through like some sort of avenging angel, scaring the perp off into the shadows. Where were the security guards? The cops posted around the courthouse? Where were all the people whose job it was to keep the officers of the court safe from the felons they prosecuted each day?

The attacker had obviously been waiting for her—he'd started tailing her the minute she stepped into the parking lot. Lennie wondered at her for not noticing. Then again—it _was_ Friday night and she and McCoy had just wrapped up one hell of a grueling case. Her spidey-senses were probably at an all-time low.

The rest of the scene was fairly crude and straightforward. Lennie didn't need to see it again—he'd had enough. Let Ed deal with what came afterwards—the brutal backhand that sent her sprawling like a ton of bricks, that tall, graceful woman who carried herself like a queen. And the pervert actually hauling out his "equipment" right there in front of the camera before crouching down to finish the job.

At least there was no doubt on intent. And robbery it was not.

"Damn…" Ed agreed, looking properly horrified.

"I know," Lennie fumed. "And the worst part—all this footage, and we still got nothing. Sick son of a bitch never shows his face."

"At least we can confirm McCoy's description—white male, about 6'2", dark hair," Ed put in helpfully.

Lennie scowled. "Yeah—him and half of New York. That really narrows it down."

Ed didn't get it. He hadn't known her for as long as Lennie had. They _owed _her. Law enforcement hadn't been around when she was hurt. The least they could do was catch the person responsible. She was a good kid. She didn't deserve this. Nobody did.

Maybe if they were lucky they'd get a hit off CODIS with the blood. But it would be hours—even days—before those results came back. And in the meantime the scum could hop a Greyhound and skip town for all they knew. Their best bet was the bunch of fingerprints CSU had pulled from the car. Although after watching the videos, Lennie couldn't be sure the perp had ever actually _touched _the car. Carmichael had always been in the way.

"She's gonna be okay, you know," Ed told him. "Van Buren called a while back. Said she was up and talking. No life-threatening injuries. Sent an officer back to the precinct with her personal effects and things."

It was a load off his mind, though Lennie doubted anyone could be "okay" after what he'd just seen. Protocol be damned, he wasn't looking forward to delving into her private stuff. He wouldn't have batted an eyelid about rummaging through someone else's handbag, day planner and discarded clothes. In fact, he kind of enjoyed it—people carried around all sorts of crap. But… Abbie Carmichael was such a private person, and poking around people's lives always turned up something nasty. He really didn't want to be the one to do it this time.

Ed was still staring at him for some reason.

"What?"

"Van Buren wants us to go home. CSU and the lab will work through the night, McCoy's coming into the precinct in the morning to talk to a sketch artist. The people at the Courthouse want to lock up. We can take the tapes with us. There's nothing more to do here."

Like hell there wasn't.

"I wanna talk to the head of security before I go."

If Lennie had been in the mood, he would have found the revearsal of their positions funny—Ed Green, always the alleged "bad cop", the impulsive one, attempting to calm _him _down. "Not tonight, Lennie. We'll talk to them tomorrow."

"I wanna talk to the head of security," Lennie doggedly insisted.

The head of security was finally produced. It turned out to be a square-jawed, middle-aged, heavyset man by the name of Crenshaw. Lennie realized he'd talked to him before, when they were given access to the camera room. But that was before they'd watched the videos, so he hadn't really made an impression. Now he just felt like smacking the crap out of him and his incompetence.

"We can't be everywhere," the guy tried to explain. "Especially after hours. Only a couple of guards stay on after the courts shut down for the day."

"This isn't _every_where," Lennie barked. "It's the goddamn parking lot. Cars get broken into every day. Don't you have someone posted there to keep the cars from getting vandalized? Or even someone watching the freakin' camera?"

"It's not considered a risk spot. All our efforts are concentrated aroun the main area—inside the building, in the courtrooms, front door… We'd never had an incident before."

"An incident? You call this an _incident_?" Lennie was practically yelling. "This woman could've been killed. Don't you know parking lots are where judges are most vulnerable? What if someone had come at one of them with a gun? You're lucky it was _just _an ADA this time."

The guy was sweating bullets. "Look, I'm sorry, detective—but it really isn't our fault. Miss Carmichael could have asked for someone to walk her outside. She didn't. She was with Mr. McCoy. There was no reason to think it wasn't safe."

"Oh yeah? Then how do you account for this stranger sitting around waiting for her? We saw the videos. He was there for hours, staking out the place. How does no one notice a stranger just sitting there in the parking lot?"

For the first time Crenshaw seemed to really focus on the screen where the image of Carmichael's attacker had been frozen. "That's no stranger."


	5. Chapter 5

**I had all but given up on this story because no one seemed to be reading. But then... just as I was about to bail... someone reviewed. Thank you, HAZMOT. So now I'm back in the game. Keep them coming, people. Reviews warm the heart and make the chapters come faster.**

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><p><strong>5.<strong>

As the old wooden slab splintered and flew open, Ed had to admit—he'd never enjoyed the act of breaking down a door more. He'd actually been hoping the suspect wouldn't respond to their urgent knocking so they'd have the pleasure of a nice, loud, forceful entry. His anger had been building up since the night before—ever since he'd watched those videos with Lennie. It needed an escape. If not an inanimate object, it would end up being somebody's face. And while he doubted anyone would blame him for beating Carmichael's attacker to a pulp, his career would probably be better off without it.

Sexual assault was such a cowardly kind of aggression. Carmichael, tall and outspoken, was probably one of the least defenseless women he knew—but what chance could even _she_ possiblyhave against a creep who sneaked up on her in the dark, from _behind, _a hulking bastard who had at least five inches and a hundred pounds on her? Spineless and pathetic—that's what it was.

Thankfully smashing down the door gave him the release he needed, so he wasn't as out of control when he saw the alleged perp, Jonathan Garbler, attempting to fit his lanky frame through the kitchen window.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he deadpanned. "Now where the hell do you think _you're _going, wiseguy? Dontcha wanna join us for a nice little chat?"

Lennie was usually the one with the one-liners, but Ed could tell he wasn't in the mood. He'd been all business, no humor since they'd got wind of Carmichael's plight. It wasn't that Ed wasn't upset, but Lennie had taken it unpredictably hard. He obviously hadn't got much sleep last night after being forced home, and all the hours they'd spent tracking down this guy hadn't done much to improve his temper.

When Crenshaw had so helpfully announced the man on the video was "no stranger", he hadn't exactly offered a name to go with it. Turned out it was just "some guy" who hung around the parking lot washing windshields and panhandling. No one really knew who he was or where he lived. It had taken hours of aimless running around before someone finally pointed them in the right direction.

Ed sat Garbler down on one of the beat up kitchen chairs, a little harder than was strictly necessary.

"I didn't do nothin'—it wasn't me!" Jonathan Garbler wailed.

He fit the general description—about 6'2", white, dark hair. He even looked a little like the half-assed sketch the forensic artist had made from McCoy's portrayal. Inspite of that, Ed was suddenly overcome with the feeling this was not their man.

"Lemme get this straight," Lennie menacingly began. "Your name's Jonathan Garbler, right?"

"Yeah."

"And you hang around the courthouse parking lot, don't you?"

"Yeah," he sniffled. "But I don't do anything wrong. They _want _me there. I help look after the cars, I help the ladies with their bags. They give me money."

His eyes were so wide, his voice was so helpless. Ed's heart sank. This was no act. There was no way this guy had the brains to pull off what they'd seen on camera.

Even so, he pushed on, "You like looking at the ladies who work there, Jonathan? Maybe think about getting your hands on one of them?"

Garbler's eyes almost popped out of his head. "No, sir!"

"These broads, in their short skirts, just flaunting it out for everyone," Lennie growled. "They were asking for it, weren't they. If it wasn't you, someone else was gonna do it. She had it coming."

"No, no, no." The big bad would-be rapist was cowering and whimpering like a frightened five-year-old. "I didn't do nothin' to no lady!"

"_Shame _on you," a sharp voice broke in behind them.

Ed turned around so fast, he strained a neck muscle. An old lady stood in the doorway, short and stocky, with a head full of tight gray curls and a nasty snarl on her face.

"What are you hounding my boy for? Can't you tell he's retarded? He ain't done a thing."

The conversation went quickly downhill from there. Even Lennie seemed to have realized Garbler wasn't the doer. His voice was half-hearted as he explained, "An ADA was attacked where he works. The perp's description matches your son."

"Nonsense," the old lady spat. "My boy would never attack anybody. He's like an overgrown puppy. Don't you dare go pinning this on him. Shame on you both."

"Mrs. Garbler—" began Ed.

"Stanton," the woman barked. "Garbler was his daddy's name—that no good sonovabitch. Went and got himself thrown in jail before my boy was two months old. Now, if you ain't gonna arrest him, get the hell outta my house."

Ed and Lennie exchanged bitter glances. Truth was, they had enough to take the kid in for questioning at least. But was it worth it? He barely seemed to understand their questions, let alone answer them. And while Ed had seen sexual violence among the mentally challenged, they were rarely the offenders.

"Just a second, ma'am," Ed interposed, doing his best to be very, _very_ polite under the old lady's snarling glare. "Jonathan, were you in the Courthouse parking lot last night?"

The kid still hadn't lost his deer-in-the-headlights look. It took him almost a minute to nod.

"Did you see anybody come and go? Anyone who isn't usually there, I mean?"

Garbler scrunched up his face in thought. "Two."

"Two men?" demanded Lennie. "What did they look like?"

"One was mostly bald with a little red hair."

Skoda. Ed knew McCoy and Carmichael had asked the forensic psychiatrist to examine their underage witness and then testify at the King trial. He'd probably stayed over for sentencing. _He _certainly wasn't their man.

"And the other one?" Lennie prompted.

"The other one just sat on the curb and smoked."

"He give you a name?" It was too much to hope for, Ed knew—but he still had to try.

"No… he was mean. I tried to talk to him and he called _me_ names."

Ed sighed. It was time accept their defeat. They weren't going to get anymore out of this man. _Maybe _he was a witness and _maybe _he'd be able to pick the guy out of a mug book or a line-up, though it seemed unlikely any identification of his would hold up in court.

"He was there before," Jonathan called out after them, almost as an afterthought, once they were practically out the door. "Last week. He came with the bald man in his car. I thought they were friends."


	6. Chapter 6

**Seems like I do a lot apologizing around here... especially considering the amount of reviews I got last time. I'm so so sorry for taking so long, and thank you all so much for reviewing! Life has been hectic, I was out of town for a while AND had major writer's block. But I'm back, and I'll be better next time. Please don't stop reading! Thank you.**

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><p>6.<p>

She could still taste the chrome in her mouth. As he ground her face into the car, all Abbie could think of was the hand groping her—and the metallic tang of the car door on her tongue. It was the taste of helplessness—of complete and utter loss of control. Like that other time, when she'd been too young and drunk to do anything about it. And then he was whispering in her ear, those hideous words, "I cut her, and she screamed. I burned her… and she screamed louder. I pushed my fist into her… and she passed out."

A shudder of revulsion went all through her. _I know that voice. _

Bergstrom's sickening eyes were boring into her—those repulsive ogling eyes that had haunted her nightmares for weeks. _He _was the one pinning her to the car, forcing her down, turning her into a victim.

_No, no, no—you can't be here, damn you. We put you away. _

And then he was gone—nothing but sterile white walls and muted hospital sounds all around her. It took her a while to realize there really was no Bergstrom, no car… no taste. Just the beads of sweat on her forehead and desperate hammering of her terrified heart.

It was morning.

And so ended what had probably been the longest night of her life. She'd barely managed to blink between the dull pounding of her head, the endless throbbing of her face, the faint nausea from the Demerol. Every time she moved, her stitches pulled and stung. And as if that weren't enough, the one time she'd finally managed to doze off—Bergstrom.

_It's like all my Christmases have come in a row._

At least morning meant she could finally be discharged, go home. Put this whole unsavory affair behind her. The memory of her pitiable statement to Anita van Buren still made her cringe. She'd barely been able to keep it together. No sooner had Jack gone than the dreaded waterworks had flipped themselves on and it was all she could do to keep them at bay while giving her recount. Every word brought on a new rush of unwanted tears to her eyes. She knew Anita had seen them, though she'd been discreet and pretended not to. Even if she _never _told, Abbie couldn't help feeling her tough prosecutor image was irreversibly tainted.

What she still couldn't get was why everything was so _fresh_ in her mind. Weren't head injuries supposed to make people forget? She wished she could forget. The scene kept playing itself over and over and it was driving her crazy. It didn't bring them any closer to finding the son of a bitch either.

_When I get my hands on you, I'm gonna nail your sorry ass to the wall, _she vowed, anger being the only way she could preserve some dignity. At least while she fumed she wasn't focusing on how it must have looked to her boss—finding her lying there in that parking lot, with her legs splayed out and her clothes torn to shreds.

_Don't think about it. Just don't fucking think about it._

All through that interminable night she had honestly believed she wanted nothing better than to go home—dive into her own bed and shut out the world. But once the orderly who had wheeled her to the door said good-bye and left, she wavered. The early morning chill cut through her like a knife, making her shiver in the measly scrubs the hospital had loaned her. Her clothes had been bagged as evidence and were in tatters anyway. She doubted she'd ever be wearing them again. Still… not having them made her feel oddly lonely and exposed.

What was she going to _do _by herself for two weeks? She had never been on sick leave for more than a couple of days. At the DA's office they worked 12-16 hours, easily. She had no idea what they were even showing on TV anymore. And she sure as hell couldn't go out looking the way she did. For fourteen straight days it would be just… she, alone with her thoughts. And memories. And nightmares.

_And flashbacks. God, no—please, no flashbacks._

It was doubly strange because she had always been alone—since her college days anyway—and gloried in it. No one to answer to, no one to compromise with. Now, for the first time in years, she wished there _were_ someone to come home to. If only her family weren't so damn far away! What the hell made her come all the way across the country for work anyway? Couldn't she just have stayed in Texas? They had courts there too, for God's sake. And she would've been safe. She could've run right back into her mommy's arms and no one would have been the wiser. Her parents wouldn't ask questions. They wouldn't think she was weak. They wouldn't whisper, "hey, that's the lawyer chick who got beat up," everytime she entered the courthouse.

Work had always been her blessed solace—the one place where she really _couldn't _spare a minute to wallow in her own problems. That ADAs were overstrained was an understatement. But she loved it. She and Jack were finally ironing out their differences and becoming a good team. One Hogan Place was beginning to feel like home. She could have got over this indignity so much easier if she'd only been allowed to jump straight back into some gruesome casefile.

But she couldn't. This one time, work couldn't be her safe haven. Her folly was written on her face. In black-and-blue ink. And she had a casefile of her own now.

As she scanned the curb for the cab she'd called earlier, she caught passers-by glancing at her in distaste. No surprise there. She knew how she must look to them—roughed up and in faded hospital attire, like a half-crazed Bellevue patient.

_Didn't you wanna be a head-turner? _she thought wryly. _Well there you go._

A hand came down on her shoulder, making her nearly jump out of her skin.

"Whoa, whoa! Take it easy, Abbie. It's me."

It was Jack.

Her knees felt rubbery and some sort of ridiculous nervous titter threatened to make its way out her mouth—she barely caught it. It took her almost a full minute to recover. Dumb though it was, a part of her had genuinely expected it to be Bergstrom.

"Jack!" she exclaimed, soon as she could speak. "What are you doing here? Don't you have to be at work?"

"Not on a saturday," he answered with his signature smirk. "I came to drive you home."

Despite his lighthearted tone, Abbie was horrified to find herself choking up. _What the hell is wrong with me? One nice gesture and I turn into a basket case._

If Jack noticed, he did a good job disguising it. She couldn't help being grateful to him for that… and for being there. It's not like she had many friends in town, not since Toni had gone and gotten herself killed. Sure she could've taken the cab, but she just really needed a shoulder to lean on right now. One that hopefully wouldn't patronize her. She wasn't sure she could take any more of that "sweetie" crap she'd got from the ER staff.

"I'm sorry I didn't think of bringing you anything to wear," he said regretfully, giving her the once-over.

She snickered. "What, you don't like my outfit?"

It was sweet of him, but she'd rather die than have her superior go through her underwear drawer. Hospital scrubs would do just fine for now.

"So how you feeling?" he asked, leading her over to his car.

"Been better," Abbie truthfully replied, not really wanting to get into it. "You got any leads?"

"Lennie and Ed went over the security videos. They seem to have something. They're following up on it now."

The security videos. _Oh, God._

Blood rushed to her face in unanticipated shame. She hadn't even thought of the videos. The whole thing would be there… out for the world to see. Where the entire precinct and DA's office could have a field day playing it over and over again. Why couldn't the ground just swallow her up?

She was uncomfortably aware of Jack's eyes on her as she fumbled with the seatbelt buckle.

"You don't have to be ashamed, you know," he spoke up, startling her. "Like you said last night—this could have happened to anyone, any time. It's not your fault."

_I know. But I still am. I'm a big girl. I should've been able to defend myself. I should've noticed._

And it could have been worse. Instead of "the lawyer chick who got beat up", it could've been "the lawyer chick who got raped".

_I wanna go home. Please take me home._

"Abbie…"

_Stop talking to me. Stop talking or I swear—I'm gonna punch you out. Or lose it._

Astoundingly enough he seemed to get it, backing off just long enough for her to compose herself. By the time they pulled up to her apartment building, she had successfully "decompressed"—swallowed down the tears of disgrace, bitten back the undeserved insults she would've piled up on anyone who attempted to console her. She was even able to smile and thank him for driving her.

"I'm sorry I was so emotional," she added. "It's just—"

She let the sentence hang there, unfinished. What else could she say?

"You don't need to explain," Jack assured her. "No one expects you to be yourself yet."

She resisted the urge to throw her arms around him in appreciation. When had this old grump—who had first acknowledged her presence in Major Crimes by telling her off—managed to turn into such an understanding human being? Could it be the same tough old Jack McCoy everyone loved to hate?

"No need to walk me up," she objected with some surprise, realizing he was getting out of the car with her.

"No buts," he said firmly. "Van Buren is reasonably convinced this was a one-time deal but Adam's right. We're taking no chances."

_Great. Now Adam's in on it too._

The bottom fell out of her world.


End file.
